


Anything Can Happen in the Woods

by WinnietheShit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Multi, tags will be updated by chapter when applicable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinnietheShit/pseuds/WinnietheShit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins like this: James Barnes comes back from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin! I emailed my friend at like two in the morning a three page long essay starting with "SO I MAY OR MAY NOT BE CONSIDERING WRITING AN AVENGERS MEDIEVAL FANTASY AU?" and then this happened.
> 
> Title shamelessly borrowed from the song "Any Moment" from Into the Woods.

James Barnes lies on his back on a stone table, his clothes tattered and bloodied. His eyes are open, turned to the side. He does not move.

“ – dead, my lord.”

The room is cold but the body is warm. Steve's hands are wet with blood.

“Do you hear me? James Barnes is dead.”

The serving woman, the redheaded one – he can't remember her name, something with an N – leans across the table, over the body, to take hold of Steve's jaw and pull his gaze up to hers. She leans over the body. She leans over the body. She leans over the -

“What – ”

James' eyes are open, turned to the side. To his left. Where Steve kneels.

“Get away,” he croaks. “Get away from him, get – ” He crumples. His jaw hits the edge of the table. Blood washes over his tongue. He moans.

“My lord – ”

The room is cold. The body is warm. Steve's hands are wet with –

He reaches blindly for James' left hand, the one that hangs limp over the edge of the table. The room is cold but the body is warm. The body is warm.

Steve's hands are wet with blood.

He follows the line of James' arm from wrist to shoulder. His left arm is mangled beyond recognition. Bone peeks through at the elbow. Steve forces himself to look at it, to bite his tongue when bile threatens to heave past his throat and onto the floor.

“ _My lord_ – ”

“ _I know._ ” It comes out louder than intended. “I know.”

She's crouching on the floor in front of him, her skirt pooling around her ankles. As he watches, blood slowly creeps into the hem of her dress and soaks all the way through, all the way around. Steve pulls his eyes away from the dark, uneven ring of red and up to the bloody hand he holds. James' eyes are open, turned to the side. Steve can see the glaring whites of those eyes on the periphery of his vision. He doesn't look until he says, “James Barnes is dead.”

James Barnes doesn't look back at him.

“Yes,” says the maid. “But.”

Steve looks at her. He's lived in his new home for little over a year, been a lord for little over a year. The servants greeted him at the door when he arrived. He knows most of them by name, and the ones he doesn't know are the ones who are new. This redheaded woman isn't new. They would have been introduced. He doesn't remember her standing in a line with the others a year ago.

“But?” he prompts.

She angles her head to catch his eye. “But he does not need to be dead.”

The room is cold but the body is warm. The body is warm. The body is –

No matter how deeply he breathes, how wide he opens his mouth, how quickly he chases the breaths, he cannot gulp them down fast enough. The room is spinning. Steve grips James' hand tighter but his hands are slick with blood.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” and her lips pull into something that's nothing like a smile, “that the woods are filled with stranger things than you know. Stranger people too.”

 

*

 

It begins like this:

Steve Rogers grows up in the gutters of the King's City. He eats little, sleeps little, fights too much.

It begins like this: James Barnes grows up in the same shitstained streets, eats the same scraps, sleeps in the same dirty corners, and fights just as much. They are filthy, malnourished orphans begging for their next meals, and if they fight with the other gutter rats every day, well, that's what gutter rats are expected to do.

It goes on like this: the war with Asgard ends. The war ends, but the King's Men come recruiting. One girl bites the first soldier to check her teeth. She goes down with a gloved hand to the cheek and doesn't come back up. The other boys and girls stand in line, bare their teeth and flex their thin arms. The healthiest of them are snatched from the streets and tossed into barracks. James and Steve share a bunk with seven of the children they grew up in the streets with, and eleven other children from a rival gang a few streets down. One of the girls scowls at James, so he snarls at her, but they get caught fighting later and one of the superior officers beats them black and blue. A years-long rivalry is discarded in favor of working together to tie the older officers' bootlaces together and slip rats into the pot of grayish stew that's served every night. They don't fight so much anymore, but they grow. James stays big. Steve gets bigger.

It goes on like this: negotiations with Asgard go sour. When James is eighteen and Steve seventeen, they go to war. Near the end of the war, James and his men are captured by the Asgardian army. Steve goes to rescue him and a hundred other men and women, finds him near death, stretched out on a cold stone table. James doesn't come back quite the same, but there's a war to fight and neither of them brings it up.

It goes on like this: the war ends. For his “outstanding bravery in the face of danger”, Steve is brought before the king himself. King Nicholas appraises him coolly with one eye, perhaps wondering which of the sickly orphans grew up to be the man before him.

The king says, “Kneel.”

He is granted lands, and a title. He doesn't know what to do with either of them.

It ends like this: James Barnes staggers out of the forest, trailing blood and muttering curses. He collapses in the front hall. He dies in the kitchen, stretched out on a cold stone table. Steve Rogers thinks to himself numbly that there is nothing to do but mourn for years, but then Natasha tells him, “he does not need to be dead.”

It begins like this: James Barnes comes back from the dead.

 

*

 

The necromancer lives deep in the woods. The redheaded maid – Steve remembers her name is Natasha – takes him deeper into the woods than he's ever been. He carries James in both arms and steps where she tells him to step, turns where she tells him to turn, ducks where she tells him to duck. Having had little time to do anything but try to manage a household since he was made a lord, he's unfamiliar with the woods surrounding his lands. James hadn't been. Truth be told, James seemed to spend more time in the forest than he did in his own bed. Steve never said anything of it, had attributed James' strange behavior to whatever tortures he endured while held prisoner. James had been only too eager to let him.

“How much further?” he asks, tightening his hands where they grip James' clothes and trying to ignore the cold press of blood against his stomach.

“Not much,” says Natasha, ducking under a low-hanging branch and waiting for him to do the same before she carries on. “The sorceress lives not far ahead.”

Steve slows his steps. “Why are you helping me?”

She turns to smile at him insincerely. “Out of the goodness of my heart.”

He looks down at James, whose eyes he's closed by now, and back up at Natasha. He doesn't trust her – he's only just remembered her name – but she's offered to help, and he can think of no nefarious motive to her offer. “I don't believe you,” he says at last.

“That's alright,” she replies, and continues walking.

The necromancer greets them at the door to her cottage. “You'll have to leave before moonrise,” she says before anything else. “There's a full moon tonight, and I'm – it's safer.”

Steve glances up at the sky. “Can you bring him back before moonrise?”

She looks almost offended. “Of course. Come in. You can lay him out on the table. I'm Betty, by the way.” She leans over James' body and pulls his eyelids open. “Hmm. How long has he been dead?”

“Three hours at most,” Natasha answers.

Betty pulls a knife out of her apron pocket and slices away the remains of James' shirt. She frowns at the deep gashes in his arm and abdomen.

“What? What is it?” say Steve, unnerved by the look on her face.

Betty purses her lips. “It's going to be difficult,” she says slowly, “More difficult than I thought. Not only are his wounds deep, you see, they're very oddly shaped.” She peers closer at the injuries, prods at the largest one and furrows her brow. “They're unlike anything I've ever seen. Do you know what weapon it was that made them?”

“No,” says Steve, and he can feel his nails biting into his palms. “I thought perhaps it might be an animal bite. He came back from the woods covered in blood this afternoon, I don't – none of us knew what had happened. Can you still bring him back?”

“These woods are filled with oddities even I have not witnessed,” Betty mutters, almost as if to herself. She steps away from the table and looks Steve in the eye. “I can bring him back, but I can't guarantee he'll come back the same.”

“I don't care,” he says. “Just bring him back.”

She looks from Steve to Natasha and back to Steve. “Alright,” she says at last. “Wait outside.”

 

*

 

Betty is true to her word. James does come back.

“Do you smell smoke?” says Steve, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall of the cottage. He can't remember ever being this tired. It feels like all of his bones have been replaced with iron counterparts, and the new weight is cold and unfamiliar.

Natasha, pacing some feet before him, replies without breaking her stride. “It's part of the spell.”

Steve wonders if she'll add “my lord” to the end of her sentence sometime soon. She doesn't.

They hear the screaming at the same time, but Natasha is quickest to react. She already vaulting herself at the door by the time Steve's scrambled to his feet. The door splinters and gives way easily beneath her shoulder. They rush inside –

They _plan_ to rush inside. A body hurtles past them, fells Natasha with a swift kick to the knee and takes Steve out with an elbow to the gut. It only gives him a few seconds head start, but it's enough. By the time either of them recover, James Barnes is but a rustle of leaves and a flash of naked flesh in the distance.

Steve moves to follow him, but a pained moan from inside the cottage stops him. Betty lies against the far side of the wall, her cheekbone badly cut and her eyes looking dazed, but that's the worst of it. The table, overturned in the middle of the room and the legs broken nearly in half, seems to have suffered the worst of the damage. Steve kneels at Betty's side. Natasha stands immobile in the doorway, facing the forest.

“What happened?” he asks, gently lifting Betty's head away from the wall to check for blood. None. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“I told you, I _told_ you – ” She groans and closes her eyes. “I'm sorry. He – _woke_ and attacked me. Pushed me away hard enough to throw me against the wall.” She blinks, and some of the clarity returns to her eyes. “Has he always been so strong? It's fascinating. I've brought someone back from the dead once before, but her death was easy, only an illness. His – I've never seen any wounds like that. I've never seen flesh knit itself together like – ” She cuts off mid-sentence to let out a howl of pain unlike anything Steve's ever heard.

“What is it, where are you hurt?” he asks, looking her over to see if there's anything he missed.

“No – it's not – _ah_!” She pushes him away feebly. “You have to – have to go. _Now_.”

“What? No, of course not, not with you like this.”

Betty screams again. Steve hears something crack.

“What – ”

“She's right.” Steve turns to see Natasha over his shoulder. “The sun has set. The moon's rising as we speak. We have to leave.”

“We can't just leave, she's hurt.”

“Not so badly,” says Natasha, and she tugs him to his feet. “Come. There's nothing we can do for her that won't be done by morning anyway.”

Steve lets himself be dragged outside, though not without watching Betty convulse in pain over his shoulder. “I don't understand.”

Natasha closes the door gently just as Betty lets loose another scream. “She'll be alright. The transformation is painful, but knowing Betty, she's drunk all the proper potions and secured all her valuables long before we arrived. All she has to do now is get through the night.” Natasha spares a last glance for the cottage before leading Steve into the thick of the forest.

“Transformation – you mean she's – ” Steve rubs a hand over his face. “I'm such a fool.”

“No, you were merely distracted,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Speaking of our little distraction, what are we going to do about Sergeant Barnes?”

“Shit.” Steve falls to his knees. He can't hear Betty screaming anymore. Have they walked far enough for her screams to become faint or has she simply stopped screaming? Steve doesn't want to think about it, but then, Steve doesn't want to think about anything else he needs to think about either. “I don't understand what's happening,” he confesses, rubbing his eyes until he sees stars.

“Shall I enlighten you?” says Natasha, kneeling before him. She places a hand on his shoulder. “Your very good friend died and a sorceress brought him back to life. The only trouble is he's clearly not well right now and we've lost him in the woods.”

Steve groans and lets his face fall back into his hands. “Shit,” he says again.

“It's not so bad,” says Natasha lightly.

“Not so bad?” He spreads his fingers a bit to look at her through the gaps. “First he was dead. Now he's alive, and apparently feral, and most importantly, _gone_. We're never going to find him in these woods. He spends most of his time in here. He knows them better than the both of us combined.”

Natasha tilts her head to the side, considering. “Alright,” she says. “We're in a bit of a pickle.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy Lewis stands in the middle of a clearing, holding a clay bowl filled with water up to the sky. “My arms are getting tired,” she says, glancing longingly at the circle of salt Jane is sprinkling on the ground. “Can't we switch places, just for a moment?”

“No,” says Jane.

“And why not?” says Darcy, catching herself at the last moment before she stamps her foot.

“Because _your_ job is to stand there holding a bowl of water and _my_ job is far more intricate and, frankly, I wouldn't trust you with it. I barely trust you with the job you have now,” Jane adds, glancing dubiously at Darcy's grip on the bowl.

Darcy groans. “How long do we have to do this for?”

“Every night until the next full moon,” says Jane.

Darcy huffs and squints at the sky. After a moment, she says, “Are you _sure_ it's a full moon? It could just be a waxing gibbous. A very waxed gibbous. Hugely waxed, so waxed one might _think_ it a full moon, but in fact it isn't, in which case we'd better head back to bed and start this tomorrow night.”

“It's only an hour out of your day, Darcy, and besides, it's not like you've got anything better to do. And yes, I'm sure it's a full moon.”

“ _How_ can you be sure, though?” As if in answer to Darcy's question, a long wolf howl pierces the night. Darcy catches Jane's eye. “Point taken.”

Jane pours the rest of the salt onto the ground, completing the circle, and hops inside. She pulls two sprigs of aconite out of her sleeve and tucks one into the neckline of Darcy's dress and holds the other close to her own chest. “We'll be fine.”

Darcy scoffs. The water sloshes but does not spill. “Forgive me if I'm less than convinced.” Jane eyes the bowl dubiously but says nothing.

The hour passes uneventfully. The howls grow nearer and recede and the moon hangs in the sky as round and bright as ever. At the end of the hour, Jane sweeps the circle of salt aside with her feet and liberates the bowl from Darcy's hands. Darcy lowers her aching arms with a groan and flexes her fingers as Jane carefully pours the water from the bowl into a large pitcher at her feet. She hands Darcy the empty bowl and carries the pitcher out of the clearing herself.

Darcy follows happily, holding the bowl under one arm and swinging her free arm widely as she walks. “Do you know, Jane, I'm so happy to be done, I barely even feel tired.”

“We're only done for the night, don't get too excited,” Jane replies, indulging in a small smile.

“Hush, you'll only spoil my good mood, and I'm determined to enjoy the walk home now that my arms are free.”

Home, only a half hour walk from the clearing, is the abandoned ruins of some long-dead lord's manor. It lies mere miles away from the border between Midgard and Asgard, which is probably why no efforts to restore it have been made. Jane Foster, who cares little for politics and even less for what most people would consider sound architecture, lives comfortably in the ruins. Of course, the west wing is more rubble than anything else, and the north tower is treacherous to even look at lest it topple over at the slightest provocation, but the east wing is more than enough room for Jane and Darcy, and the north tower, as structurally unstable as it might be, is perfect for viewing the stars. Besides, with a few magically repaired walls and doors, some well-placed candles and rugs, the place is downright homey.

The north tower is just visible from over the treetops when a nearly nude man rushes at them from the opposite direction and collapses at Jane's feet. Darcy shrieks and nearly drops the bowl while Jane clutches the pitcher to her chest and resolutely refuses to spill a single drop of water.

“Gentle lady, the sight of your face is a welcome boon,” he gasps, looking up at Jane. “I pray you, send word to the king – tell him his son is in dire need of his assistance.”

“The king has no son,” says Jane, and pulls her skirts free of his grasp.

The madman doesn't seem to hear her. “Bandits – I was set upon by bandits, I, the prince! They took my clothes, my sword – the shame – my father will hear of this – my father...” He faints.

“Good heavens,” says Darcy, nudging him none-too-gently with her toe. “Have you ever seen the like.”

Jane stares at the unconscious man for a moment before daintily stepping over him. “Come along. It's none of our business.”

“None of our – why, Jane!” Darcy squawks. “I thought you better than this! This poor, raving soul, near death at our feet – how can you be so heartless!”

“Rather like this, actually,” says Jane, trudging stoutly ahead.

“ _Jane_.”

She stops, sighs. Her shoulders fall. “I hate it when you use that voice.”

“If you're so worried about the spell,” says Darcy fondly, “you go on ahead and put everything away. I'll wait here until you come back.” She glances down at the madman. “Perhaps with a stretcher. And a blanket.”

Jane eyes her for a full minute. “Oh, very well,” she says at last, and holds out her hand for the bowl. Darcy gives it to her and settles herself on the ground comfortably to wait.

“No need to hurry,” she calls to Jane's retreating back, eyeing the planes of the madman's chest hungrily.

Jane returns at a jog, dragging a stretcher behind her. “Couldn't find a blanket. Nothing's happened, he hasn't woken?”

“Slept like a baby,” says Darcy, and takes hold of the man's legs to help Jane lift him onto the stretcher. It takes them some time, the man is larger than both of them, but eventually he's deposited safely onto the stretcher and the two, huffing and puffing, begin to carry him home.

“You know,” Darcy gasps once they carry him into the front hall, “I'm sure he'll be just fine if we leave him here. Right here, I mean. On the floor. As I stand – oh, Jane, my arms are killing me, please say we can drop him.”

Jane, too out of breath to speak, nods vigorously and the semi-nude unconscious man drops to the floor like a sack of flour. He barely stirs. Jane eyes him for a moment and then dusts her hands off and leaves the room. Darcy remains to catch her breath a moment more before following. “You know,” she says, her voice echoing against the stone walls, “for a raving madman, he's quite fit.”

In the front hall, laid out gracelessly on a crudely constructed stretcher, mostly-nude and covered in dirt, Thor Odinson, crown prince of Asgard, lets out an earth-shattering snore and slumbers peacefully on.

 

*

 

The next morning, Jane stands above the slumbering stranger and drops a pile of clothes on his chest. He wakes with a snort and looks blearily around him.

“Those should fit you,” says Jane, eyeing him clinically.

He holds the shirt between his thumb and forefinger and brings it to eye level. “They will suffice,” he says, and promptly pulls the shirt over his head.

Jane's ensuing silence is pronounced enough to grab the man's attention. He lifts his head to see her staring coldly at him. She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Thank you,” he says at last. Jane nods. Hidden in the adjoining room with her back pressed against the wall, Darcy bites her knuckle and grins.

“Do you know where you are?” Jane asks as the stranger pulls his trousers on. She carefully keeps her gaze concentrated above his neck.

“No,” he admits, lacing the trousers.

“Do you recall the events of last night?”

“No.”

“Do you know your name?”

He looks her in the eye. Jane, having worked hard to maintain an air of cool disinterest up to this point, tries to ignore the considerable advantage this man has over her in terms of both height and strength. “Yes,” he says at last. Jane twitches her fingers. “Where am I?”

“In my home.” _At my mercy_ goes unsaid but she tries to imply it in her gaze and stance.

“And where is that?”

“The forest.”

“Which forest?”

She forces out a laugh. “The one that borders Midgard and Asgard, of course.”

His mouth tightens into a thin line. “Of course.”

Jane turns away from him and begins pacing leisurely around the room, trailing her fingers across the stones in the walls and determinedly not meeting his eye. “You said something very interesting last night. Some lunacy about the king's son.”

“What lunacy is that?”

“Only that the king's son was in grave danger, or something to that effect.

“Where is the lunacy in that?” he replies carefully.

“Why, the king has no son,” she says with a small smile.

He's quiet for a moment. “Depends on the king.”

Jane stops pacing. “King Nicholas.”

The stranger bows his head. “We are in Midgard, then,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” says Jane gently. “Your name, please.”

He takes a deep breath before meeting her eyes. “Thor. Son of Odin. Crown prince of Asgard.”

Jane sighs. “And how did you come to be wandering half-naked in the forest last night, so far from your home?”

He blinks, perhaps surprised by her informal address of him. “Where do your allegiances lie, if I may ask?”

“With none but myself.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You are a traitor to your country?”

“No, merely easily overlooked and thus happily independent. Although,” she adds, “I'm sure if the king knew of my existence he would heartily object.” Jane folds her arms and tilts her head to the side, considering him. “Please answer my question. How did you come to be here?”

“I was – I _am_ exiled.”

“So you lied.”

“On my honor, I have not once lied to you.”

“You are no longer crown prince of Asgard,” she says, “is this not correct?”

Thor smiles. “Forgive me,” he says, his voice a deep rumble, “you seem to have caught me out.”

Jane shrugs and bites back a smile. “The crux of the dilemma is this, _Thor_ : I have little desire to become involved in politics. All I ask is to be left in peace. I live in this castle with a girl from the village and we keep to ourselves. Your presence here seems likely to disrupt the anonymity we have worked so hard to maintain, however I cannot in good conscience merely cast you out into the wilderness when you are so obviously ill-suited for such an environment. Do you see my trouble?”

Thor frowns and considers her for a moment. “What is it you do that requires such secrecy from your own king?”

Jane raises her eyebrows, steels herself for his reaction. “I am a sorceress.”

Thor blinks. “And?”

Jane gapes at him. “Sorcery is illegal.”

Thor barks out a laugh. “That's barbaric! Sorcery, illegal! What kind of backwards nation is this?”

Jane frowns. “Yes, that's right,” she mutters to herself, “I nearly forgot Asgard's king is a magician himself.”

“You are an outlaw then, like me?” Thor asks, once again grave.

Jane nods curtly.

He sighs and spreads his hands. “I have nowhere to go. The animosity between our people is great. I cannot return home and yet I cannot venture further into your country. I can only ask for your further generosity. I am ill-schooled in the art of magic, but I can offer you what little knowledge I have, as well as any other services you may require of me, in return for your protection.”

“Oh, Jane!” Darcy cries, bursting into the room with little regard for her assigned hiding spot. “Do say yes! He can hold the water up in my stead!”

“No, he can't,” says Jane, giving Darcy a severe look.

“Why not?”

“For consistency's sake. Spells are remarkably fickle.” She turns to Thor. “But you _can_ stay.”

Thor beams. “Thank you. How may I address you?”

“Jane,” she says, and sweeps out of the room. “Oh, and Darcy?” she calls over her shoulder. “Do show our new housemate his chambers.”

“ _Chambers_ ,” Darcy snorts. “The whole castle is a ruin and she still calls them _chambers_.” She turns to Thor, looks him up and down. “Oh, well. At least you'll lighten my workload some. Follow me. Can you hunt?”

“Of course,” he says, following her out of the front hall.

“I thought as much. Can you cook?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“I'll soon fix that. I'm going to make the loveliest little washerwoman out of you.”


	3. Chapter 3

The moon hangs low and lopsided in the sky. Natasha looks at Steve from across the fire. “You have not slept these past four nights.”

“It's not for lack of trying,” he replies. In the dark, the firelight casts strange shadows across Natasha's face.

“Do you want to sleep?” she asks.

“Why wouldn't I?” He props his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee. There is a consistent low, dull throbbing between his eyes. Whenever he tries to sleep, he remembers Natasha lies a mere few feet away from him and all the heaviness lifts from his eyelids. At least his back doesn't ache. Laying on the ground at night, walking through the forest all day – he's used to this. This is easy, compared to running a castle.

Light flutters and dips across the hollows and planes of Natasha's face. She mirrors his pose. She looks positively skeletal. “Did you know I fought in the war?” she says lightly.

“Many did,” he replies disinterestedly.

“I was fourteen.”

This grabs his attention. “Fourteen? But you're – ”

She looks down at the fire. “I say war – well. After the first war. Before the second. You might not call what I did 'fighting,' if you knew what it was. My work was – is a bit more specialized.”

Steve takes a breath. “Specialized.”

Her eyelids flutter. She watches him for a long moment, searching for something he's not sure he would offer even if he could. Her voice is light, conversational, when she next speaks. “'First war.' 'Second war.' We all know the war never ended. There may not have been any officially recognized battles or battlegrounds in the years between, but there was enough bloodshed.” Her gaze drops to the fire again. Steve's tensed muscles relax infinitesimally.

“I take it you're not a serving girl, then,” he says, adopting her conversational tone.

Her mouth unfurls into a leisurely grin that doesn't reach her eyes. “For someone who wasn't a serving girl, I did end up filling your goblet quite often, didn't I?” Steve wonders if she means for him to take it as an innuendo, wonders what it would mean even if she did.

“Were you sent to spy on me?” he asks. He can't understand why anyone would want to spy on him.

She blinks, catlike “Who says I was here for you?”

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for him to comprehend. “James.”

“My, my, you do catch on quick.”

“That's why you helped me when he – that's why...” Steve groans. His headache is getting worse. “But what interest can you have in him?”

“It's not me who's interested in him,” she says.

“Who, then? Who sent you?”

Natasha quirks her lips to the side. “The very man who gave you a castle and made you a lord. The man who sent us to war.”

Steve can only gape at her for a moment. “The _king_? But – _why_?”

“Your friend never told you what happened to him when he was held prisoner by the Asgardians?”

“They tortured him,” Steve replies, frowning at the fire. “They tortured others as well, I don't see why the king would take enough of an interest in James to send a spy.”

“Torture is a gentle word for it,” says Natasha in a low voice. “None but your friend survived the experiments.”

Steve is quiet a long moment. “Experiments?”

“Hmm. Sorcery is legal in Asgard, did you know? They say that's why we fight. _Magic is dirty, magic is unsafe, Asgard's encouragement of such practices cannot be tolerated_ and all that nonsense. Magic has nothing to do with it, of course. The king himself has several sorcerers in his employ. Sorcery's just an easy scapegoat. No,” she adds, catching Steve's expression, “before you ask, I don't know the real reason. I'm only a spy, after all.” Her smile is humorless.

“What – ” He clears his throat. “What were you saying about experiments?”

“I was born in Asgard,” she answers. “I don't remember my parents. I'm told my mother had red hair and was one of the king's most skilled sorcerers. In Asgard, any child whose parents can afford it learns the basic principles of sorcery. My education was among the finest. When I was six my mother started experimenting on me. When I was nine she pulled me apart and put me back together. I got away when I was eleven.” She doesn't take a deep breath or close her eyes to collect herself. She stares unblinking into the fire and she continues in the same, unbroken tone. “She works for the king still. When your friend found himself behind enemy lines, chained to a post in an enemy camp, my mother was the one who walked down rows of prisoners, stopped before him, and said, 'This one.' My mother pulled your friend apart and put him back together. My mother made a man into a weapon.”

“No,” says Steve. “He's not a – he's _normal_ , he's fine. He came back fine.” He can taste the lie on his own tongue. Natasha just raises an eyebrow. Steve buries his face in his hands. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because assets like myself and your friend could prove very valuable to King Nicholas,” she says in a low, urgent tone. “Because I look at you and I see thirteen different ways to kill a man. I don't remember what was done to me. Your friend might. The king wants to know, the king wants to _replicate_ it. He wants an army more effective than an army. He wants soldiers who are weapons.” She drags a hand through her hair. “I should have let your friend die,” she says.

Steve can hardly breathe. “Why didn't you?”

“Because I thought he deserved a life,” she mutters. She snaps her gaze to his. “My mission was to bring him back alive. I'm not going to do that,” she says. “I want to help you find him and bring him back to himself, but when that's done I'll go back and tell the king he's dead.”

Steve looks at her for a long moment. “Why the change of heart?”

“Who says it was a change of heart?” She blinks once and pulls in a deep breath, excruciatingly slowly. “I shouldn't have taken you to the necromancer. I apologize. But I've made my decision and I intend to follow through with it. Do you trust me?”

Steve wants to take a moment to consider, wants to play it safe, but he nods. “I do now.”

 

*

 

Thor takes to his new chores with admirable vigor, despite his ignorance of how to correctly perform any of the tasks assigned to him. For the first few days, Darcy tells him, “Thor, can you mop the kitchen floor?” or “Thor, could you dust the library?” or “Thor, please skin this rabbit,” assuming if he needs any guidance or clarification, he'll ask for it.

She's wrong.

Thor's enthusiasm and gratitude results in a misplaced sense of confidence in his ability to perform his chores. In the end, Darcy relegates him to the position of her student and spends a few hours each day teaching him how to cook and clean properly so as to avoid any more mishaps, such as when he tried washing the bedclothes without using soap. For a while it seems to be going well. For a man who's never cooked a day in his life, Thor, as it turns out, is quite adept at baking.

After a few weeks, Darcy trusts in his abilities enough to send him gathering herbs on his own again. (The last time he'd gone out on his own, he came back with a basket of poison ivy. Jane still hasn't forgiven her for that.)

This time, he comes back with a buck.

He carries the dead creature into the front hall on his shoulders, beaming at his own success, and drops it at Jane's feet. She can only gape openmouthed.

“What – ” She clears her throat. “Thor,” she says slowly, “why have you brought us a buck?”

“I thought we might have it for dinner,” he replies, out of breath but still remarkably jovial.

Jane drags her eyes away from the buck and up to Thor's smiling, sweaty face. “You carried this all the way here?”

He nods.

“Thor...” She shakes her head. “There's _three_ of us. How are we supposed to eat all of this?”

His smile falters. “I hadn't thought of that.”

Darcy walks in just in time to hear. “We can always salt what we don't eat tonight,” she says cheerfully. “Preserve it with a spell or something. Oh, don't look at me like that, Jane, you can conjure up a box of ice or something.”

Jane opens her mouth to reply when Thor begins to take off his shirt. “What are you doing?”

He stops with his arms halfway over his head. “I'm – rather hot, I thought I might take a bath. If that's alright?” He gives her a curious look.

Jane swallows. “That's – that's fine,” she says, her voice pitched a bit higher than usual. “Absolutely fine.”

Darcy leans closer to her and grins. “I told you we wouldn't regret keeping him around,” she says, watching hungrily as Thor pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and walks out of the room. Jane watches him go with wide eyes.

She clears her throat once he rounds the corner and turns to Darcy. “Just because he's – that's not why – ” Darcy raises her eyebrows. Jane deflates. “Alright, he is... somewhat attractive.”

Darcy's grin grows wider. “I knew you would come around,” she says, patting Jane on the shoulder.

Jane's returned to her workstation by the time Thor's finished washing. He and Darcy carry the animal to the kitchen, with Thor doing most of the heavy lifting, and lay it flat on the table, where they begin to skin it. Thor, at least, knows how to do this.

“Darcy,” he says, up to his elbows in the poor animal, “does your mistress mislike me in some way?”

Darcy snorts and replies. “Hardly.”

He frowns. “Is she always so...”

“Rude?”

“No, not that – I didn't mean - ”

Darcy laughs. “I know what you mean. Let's just say Jane's not known for her expert communication skills. I'm not sure how long she lived alone in this castle before I came along, but in my opinion, it was too long. You should have _seen_ the state of this place before I arrived, Thor, it was positively wretched.” She tilts her head to the side, considering him. “You know, if you're so keen to be in her good graces, Jane's got a notorious sweet tooth. I'll teach you to make an apple tart tomorrow.”

It's nearing dusk by the time they finish skinning and chopping and salting the meat. Darcy leaves the cooking to Thor and heads outside for a breath of fresh air. She wipes her clean hands on her apron and watches the sun dip lower and lower behind the trees.

That's when, for the second time in her life, a naked man rushes at her from the woods and nearly knocks her over. Darcy screams.

He's covered in dirt and dried blood. His left arm is a mangled mess and his stomach boasts an abundance of strangely shaped scars. His eyes are wild and he spins in a circle, unsteady on his feet, before his eyes alight on Darcy. She screams again.

A large, man-shaped blur flies at the stranger and tackles him to the ground. Thor's larger and stronger than the other man, but has a hard time holding him down. The stranger thrashes and twists against Thor's grasp, screaming all the while. Darcy is so engrossed in the spectacle that she almost doesn't see Jane creep up behind the two men until she's hit the stranger on the head with a frying pan. He falls unconscious immediately.

Darcy gapes at her.

“What?” Jane says shakily. “He was frightening you.”

Thor carefully releases the other man and backs away. “Do you know this man?” he asks, pushing Jane behind him. She shakes her head.

Darcy somehow manages to find her voice. “He's clearly ill.”

It's Jane's turn to gape. “Darcy, you can't be serious – ”

“Oh, _look_ at him, Jane! What else are we to do, leave him to die in the woods?”

“What _is_ it with you and inviting scantily clad strangers into my home?” Jane shouts.

“ _Our_ home!”

“Yes, _our_ home, which means I should also get a say in who stays with us!”

“Thor!” they cry in unison, turning to glare at him. He jumps. “You live here now, too,” says Jane, “What's your opinion on the matter?”

Darcy folds her arms and raises her eyebrows. “Yes, Thor, what do you think?”

“I think...” He sighs. “I think Darcy is right. We cannot leave him to fend for himself.”

Jane throws her hands up in defeat. “Fine! As you wish.” She points at Darcy with the frying pan. “But he's _your_ responsibility.”

“I handled Thor quite well, didn't I?” Darcy replies haughtily. “I can handle this one too.”

Jane rolls her eyes and storms inside. Darcy turns to Thor, smiling. “Well. At least we have someone to help us eat all that meat, now, don't we?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Darcy rushes to prepare a room for their new guest while Thor carries him into the house. He reaches the room just as Darcy finishes. She steps aside to let him pass and unabashedly eyes the stranger's body when Thor lays him out on the bed.

“You'll have to look over him this morning while Jane and I are out,” she says softly as Thor pulls the blankets up around him. “Only for an hour or two.”

Thor nods. “Perhaps we ought to ask Jane to look him over,” he says, stepping away from the bed with a frown.

“Not yet,” says Darcy. “She'll need some time to cool down. Besides, most of his wounds look to be healed or healing. All he really needs now is a good washing up.” She grins at Thor, but his expression remains grim.

“Alright,” she says, and pats his arm. “You can go. I'll stay with him in the meantime.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay,” says Thor.

Darcy nods. “I'll bring dinner up when it's ready.”

Some hours later, Jane emerges from from her workroom and cautiously steps into the room holding tight to a large plate of venison and potatoes. “Darcy sent me,” she confesses with a small smile as she hands the plate to Thor. He tucks in happily and Jane sits by the bed to look the stranger over. She pulls the blankets back and frowns when she gets a closer look at his wounds. “Darcy thinks we ought have stew tomorrow night,” she says distractedly, prodding gingerly at his left arm. “Might be easier for our guest to eat, she says.”

“I think it a splendid idea,” Thor says around a mouthful of potatoes. He nearly chokes when Jane turns to give him a strange look and makes sure to swallow before saying, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she replies. “Only I would think a crown prince of Asgard would have better table manners than that.”

This time he does choke on his food, and Jane would ask if he were alright if she weren't so busy laughing at his shocked face. “I am capable of making a joke, you know,” she says once they've both caught their breath.

“Apparently,” he says wryly, and the arch of his brow nearly sends Jane into another fit of laughter. “Well, what do you think?” he says a moment later.

Jane blinks. “Think of what?”

Thor nods at the other man. “Of his injuries. Will he be alright?”

She sighs and turns back to the bed. “The wounds look _old_ , truth be told. See this one here, on his belly? At a guess, I would say that scar is at least six months old. What's troubling is all the blood. It's long dry now, days old, but where there are no scars there is no blood, and the same goes for the opposite. Here, on his right arm, you see? Completely clean of either blood or scarring, while his left arm...” She frowns. “His left arm is... I worry he may not be able to use it again.”

“Surely – surely _you_ could do something?”

“What? Me?” she squawks.

“You are a most powerful sorceress, especially considering that you are self-taught. I would be surprised if anyone but you could figure it out.”

“I don't – I don't often work with human bodies,” she says. “Most of my skill in spellwork pertains to nature. There is a sorceress I know who lives closer to the edge of the woods, she might be able to – but I?” Jane shakes her head.

“What of the spell you are working on now, the one for the werewolf? Clearly you have some knowledge of the human body, otherwise you would not have made it as far as you have.”

“I've barely made it anywhere!” she replies. “Do you know, this is the third time Darcy and I have tried this spell? The first month, I thought we needed to avoid the use of any unnatural materials while gathering ingredients, so Darcy and I wore deerskin robes and wove a bowl out of grass and sealed the bottom with lily pads. The second month I realized a balance between the manmade and natural elements was necessary in order to achieve harmony between the wolf and the man, so we used a metal bucket _and_ wore the deerskin robes, but balance was not yet achieved. Even now I have no idea what I'm doing, it's all guesswork!” She takes a deep breath. “Trial and error may be all very well when you're not working directly with a living being, but to ask me to experiment on a man is – I can't do it.”

Thor reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me, Jane,” he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “I should not have pressed the matter. You understand your own limits far better than I ever could. It was wrong of me to push you so.”

She manages a small smile. “Don't trouble yourself over it. You have a fair point. If it is within my ability to help this man, it would be wrong of me not to try, at least. I will think on it tonight.”

Thor matches her smile. “Go and rest, Jane. I will wake you before dawn in time to collect your ingredients for the spell. Although,” he adds as Jane rises from her chair, “may I ask – what is it you are collecting in that clay bowl?”

She pauses at the door. “Moonlight. The reflection of the moon on water.”

Thor begins to laugh.

“What is it?”

“I see now why Darcy complains. You have her holding that bowl up the sky for an hour every night!”

Jane rolls her eyes. “She complains far too much, in my opinion.”

“She only does it to pass the time,” Thor replies.

“She couldn't sing or tell stories instead?” Jane mutters with a shake of her head. “Oh well. Good night, Thor.”

“Good night, Jane.”

 

*

 

They return in the morning bleary-eyed and dragging their feet. Jane immediately disappears into her workroom while Darcy joins Thor to find him dozing in his chair, his head drooping onto his chest.

“Go to bed, dear,” she says, shaking his arm to wake him. “I'll stay with him.”

He heaves himself out of his chair with a grunt and stumbles to his room. Darcy watches him leave with a fond smile before settling into the chair herself, stifling a yawn behind her hand. She watches the sun rise the rest of the way and before she knows it, she's asleep in her chair. Thor wakes her up some hours later to present her with breakfast and asks with a grin if she's sure she'd rather not have him watch over their unconscious guest for the rest of the day. She shoos him out of the room with a theatrical scowl and resolves not to fall asleep again.

Any remaining weariness is startled out of her when the stranger jerks awake and grabs her arm. Darcy bites down on her tongue to stifle a scream and tries not to panic.

He's sitting upright, staring at her – no, staring past her. Darcy twists her arm to try to get free. His grip slackens and his hand falls back to his side. He opens and closes his mouth, shaking his head as though to clear it of something.

Darcy gently pushes him back down onto the bed. “It's alright,” she stammers, “You're alright.”

He works his jaw, glowering at the ceiling.

“Do you, um, remember anything?”

He squeezes his eyes shut in lieu of an answer.

Darcy takes a breath. “Do you know your name?”

“...James. I think my name is James,” he murmurs.

“A lovely name, that's a fine name,” Darcy breathes. “Would you - shall I tell you what _I_ know of how you came to be here?”

He opens his eyes again, still glaring at the ceiling. Darcy takes that for a _yes_. “Well, you, uh – you ran out of the forest. Um...buck nude, I might add,” she says with a weak laugh, “And – well – frightened me a bit, and frightened _Jane_ a bit, so... she hit you on the back of the head with a frying pan to render you unconscious, which may be why your head hurts, if it does at all?” Her voice has risen to a squeak by the time she finishes. She clears her throat. “Um. You're – you're in Jane's home now. Well, my home as well, but it was her home first, and now it's Thor's too – he watched over you earlier, and...tackled you, now that I think of it...oh dear.”

James turns his head away from her to face the wall.

Darcy sucks in another deep breath, still shaky. “Would you like anything? Are you hungry or thirsty?”

He works his jaw back and forth for a moment before answering. “Water. Please,” he adds.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Darcy says, and rushes eagerly out of the room. She looks for Thor before she does anything else and finds him shifting his weight from leg to leg outside of Jane's workroom. “What are you doing here?” she gasps, eying the closed door of Jane's workroom. “Never mind. He's awake!”

“He's awake? Has he said anything?”

“Only that his name is James and he'd like some water. Water! I have to get him water. Do look after him for me, will you?”

She runs to the kitchen without waiting for a response. When she returns to the room with water and a small bowl of cut-up fruit, Thor is sitting by James' bedside and speaking to him quietly. He stops when Darcy enters the room and reaches out for the food. “I will stay with him for now, Darcy,” he says. She nods and backs out of the room. Once she rounds the corner she runs straight to Jane's workroom.

“He's awake!” she cries, throwing the door open.

Jane barely even flinches. “You sound surprised. He wasn't going to stay unconscious forever, you know.”

“Well, after you _hit_ him with the _frying pan_ , I wasn't so sure,” she retorts, dragging a stool over to Jane's table.

“I didn't hit him that hard,” Jane says with a scoff. “Hand me that book on the top shelf there, will you? Thank you.”

Darcy waits on her stool without saying a word, but after a while Jane's determination to work in silence drives her mad. “Oh, don't you want to know what he said?”

“I figured you'd get around to it in your own time,” Jane says idly.

“You are a terrible spoilsport. His name is James and I don't think he remembers anything about what happened to him. I told him you hit him on the head by the way, so if he turns out to dislike you, that may be the reason.”

Jane looks up from her table and frowns at Darcy. “He doesn't remember anything? Did he say as much to you?”

“He didn't say anything at all, really,” she replies with a shrug, “but he didn't answer when I asked if he remembered anything.”

Jane steps away from her work and wipes her hands on her apron. “Perhaps I should go and see him.”

“If you do, I recommend keeping Thor in the room with you. Do you know, when he woke, he grabbed my arm and gave me such a terrible fright – oh, don't worry, Jane, I'm not hurt at all, see?”

“I wasn't worried,” Jane replies breezily, walking past Darcy and out of the room. Darcy follows at a trot to keep up with Jane's brisk pace. “If you had been really hurt, it's all you would have talked about. I probably wouldn't have learned the poor man's name for hours if he'd even so much as given you a little bruise.”

“It's a wonder I even stick around when you're so terribly cruel to me,” Darcy sniffs. Jane rolls her eyes.

James is sitting hunched over in bed, accepting the small pieces of fruit that Thor hands to him with his right hand. His left arm hangs uselessly by his side. Thor smiles when they walk in and rises to greet Jane in the doorway, leaving the bowl of fruit on the bed. James eats the rest with an almost mechanical focus, staring dead-eyed at the wall in front of him.

“He's eating.”

“I can see that,” Jane replies, her tone distracted but not unkind. “Has he said anything?”

“Only that he can feed himself.” Thor rubs at the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. “Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to feed him, but...” He shrugs.

“Wait outside.” Jane pushes past him to sit by James' bed. He barely acknowledges her.

In the hall, waiting on opposite sides of the doorway, Darcy and Thor lean in as close as they can to listen without making themselves visible.

“May I see your arm?” Jane says, getting right down to business. From what she's seen and heard, James seems to have no regard for any of the pleasantries that Darcy and Thor have already tried out on him.

He finishes chewing, swallows, and – eyes still trained on the opposite wall – says, “I can't move it.”

Jane purses her lips. “How long have you not been able to move it?”

He shrugs with his right shoulder.

“Since you can remember?”

He doesn't say _no_ , so Jane takes it for a yes.

“Do you have any – ” She sighs, frowns, and decides to start over. “If you have any...flashes of memory, or things you know or think you know, would you mind telling me what they are?”

He pulls another piece of fruit out of the bowl, pops it in his mouth, and says nothing.

Jane sighs again. “Look, you know, I _am_ trying to help.”

Again, nothing.

An idea pops into Jane's head. Frowning, she asks, “Is this because I hit you with the frying pan?”

He slides his gaze along the room until it lands on Jane. He doesn't smile. “No.”

“Oh.” She shifts in her seat. “Well, good. Because I don't regret doing that. You might not remember what you did, but you did frighten me – and the girl that lives with me – quite a bit and you should know, I simply will not stand for that kind of behavior.”

James closes his eyes. “I will try not to be – ” He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“Violent? What a kind offer,” Jane replies dryly. “But I'm going to need a bit more than that if you're to stay here.”

When he finally speaks again, his voice is so low that Jane has to lean in to hear him. “I don't know that I can offer anything more.”

She blinks at the ceiling, considering. “We're not going to be turning you back out into the woods,” she says, almost to herself. “You're far too much of a danger to yourself and others for that to happen. But I have a proposal for you.” She sighs. “I will, to the best of my abilities, aid you in recovering your memories if you will, to the best of _your_ abilities, try to communicate with us.”

He narrows his eyes at her, clearly expecting more from the bargain. “Communicate?”

“Yes. I can't very well help you if you won't let me know what needs helping.” She gentles her tone. “At the very least talk to _me_.”

His eyes drift down to his shoulder. He clears his throat. “My arm – ”

“Oh, yes!” Jane makes a grabbing motion with her hands, her eyes alight with eagerness. “Do let me see it. I've been thinking on it all night and, you know, with some inventiveness on my part, I do think I might be able to return it to its former functionality.”

Again, he doesn't smile, but he does shift in the bed to allow Jane easier access to his left side. Out in the hall, Darcy and Thor peek around the doorjamb to see Jane lifting his arm up to eye-level and clinically prodding and poking at the flesh. She begins bending his wrist and elbow back and forth. James suffers all this with an air that could never be called _good-natured_ , but at least it's not _bad-natured_.

“Looks like we have a new addition to our little family,” Darcy whispers.

Thor gives her a stern look, but the effect is cheapened somewhat by the smile on his face. “Do you make a habit of collecting people?”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “Only the ones who run at me naked.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> been a while, but I'm not giving up yet!

Natasha shakes Steve awake one night weeks into their search.  He grunts and stares blearily at her for a moment before he registers the fact that her eyes are not on his face but rather to his left.  He follows her gaze to the knife embedded in the tree by his ear and finds himself immediately alert.

“We are being watched,” Natasha mouths, rising silently to her feet.

Steve stands with far less grace and far more noise.  She purses her lips at him.  He shrugs apologetically in response.  Their time together has resulted in the formation of a silent language between them.  While Steve finds Natasha’s face and voice no more expressive than when he first met her, he has come to recognize the subtle differences in her dead-eyed stares and monotone replies.

He tracks the trajectory of the knife to a spot high in a tree some yards away.  Natasha anticipates his thoughts and blends into the darkness of the wood behind her, invisible now to Steve’s eyes and likely to the eyes of the stranger watching them.  Steve wrenches the knife out of the tree and twirls it idly in his hand as he moves more into the open.

Frankly, he expects at least a minute before Natasha produces any results, but he’s barely planted his feet before two figures come tumbling out of the tree to his right, one large and dark, the other slight and pale.  Natasha has her thighs wrapped around the man’s neck, his arms bulging with the effort of trying to pry her off.  Steve watches them struggle for a moment before he clears his throat.  Natasha looks up and immediately releases the man.  He collapses against a tree trunk, gasping for air.  She stands not far from him, ready to subdue him at a moment’s notice.

Steve wastes no time in pinning the man against a tree with a knife to the throat.

“Good evening,” says the man politely.  Surprisingly, his gaze lacks any malice.

“Is this yours?” Steve responds, pressing the blade against the man’s skin.  The man licks his lips and says nothing.  Steve nods.  “I thought as much.”

Natasha pulls a matching knife out of the man’s pocket, as well as a bag that clinks when she shakes it in her palm.  She drops the second knife and, watching the man’s eyes dart to it, pins the blade under her boot.  “A hefty sum,” she says, pouring the contents of the bag into her hand.  Gold coins tumble out.  “Yours?”

“Yes,” says the man.

“And how long has it been yours?”

“Does that matter?”

Natasha arches her brow at Steve.

“Who sent you?” Steve asks.

“No one,” the stranger responds.

“Who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“Why follow us?”

“I haven’t been.”

“You mean to tell me that wasn’t your knife in the tree by my ear.”

“No.”

“No, it wasn’t your knife?”

“No, I don’t mean to tell you that.”

Steve squints.  “Who are you?”

The man stares at him for a long moment.  Then: “My name is Sam.”

“Hello, Sam.  Why are you trying to kill us?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh?”

“I’m trying to rob you.”

“A knife to the head – even missed – seems like an attempt at murder.”

Sam grins.  “Who says I missed?”

Natasha chuckles.  “I see now.  He meant to distract us with the knife, send us searching for the attacker while he descended upon our supplies.  It’s clever,” she admits, “but misguided.  We have no money for you to steal.”

The grin on Sam’s face becomes, if possible, even wider.  He spreads his palms placatingly and says, “Then it seems we have no reason to quarrel.”

“I hate to be a nitpick,” says Steve, trying very hard to hide his amusement, “but a knife seems to me to be a very good reason to quarrel.”

“Ah,” says Sam, raising a finger, “but we have established the knife was used as a distraction rather than a tool for harm.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at Natasha.  She purses her lips and nods, minutely.  Steve withdraws the knife from Sam’s throat and takes a step back.  “I accept your explanation,” he says, “but as a gesture of goodwill, I think I’ll be keeping the knife.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” Sam agrees.

Natasha walks to their nearly dead fire and begins to work at setting it alight again.  Sam rubs at his throat.  Steve eyes the faint glow just visible over the tops of the trees, extends his hand to their new friend, and asks, “Join us for breakfast?”

Sam is only too happy to oblige.

 

 

 

Thor spends more time lingering outside the door to Jane's workshop than he does anything else, it seems.  Darcy tries not to spy on him – or at least, she tries not to spy on him too obviously – but from what she's seen, the minute he hears footsteps or any indication that Jane is about to emerge, he scrambles to find a way to make it look like he was “just walking by”.  Jane barely ever pays him any mind, even though it's obvious he's desperate to launch into some sort of interaction with her.

Darcy wonders if she ought to tell him not to hold his breath.  Jane performs her work with such a single-minded focus that it took her nearly two weeks to notice that Darcy had been living in the castle.  Besides, the last time Jane showed any romantic interest in someone, she was a sorceress too, and they spent most of their time working on spells together.  It's not that Darcy thinks Thor doesn't stand a chance, it's rather that he probably doesn't stand a chance unless he has a hidden talent for sorcery.  Which, frankly, Darcy seriously doubts is the case.

She starts giving him the task of taking meals up to Jane's workroom in her stead because she likes to watch him blush and try to come up with an excuse for Darcy to do it that doesn't make it seem like he's trying to avoid interacting with Jane.  Darcy's never been called cruel, but the word merciless has been used alongside her name once or twice.

Sometimes she regrets the shift in workload, however, because while Thor's ensuring Jane eats her dinner and keeps her workspace tidy, Darcy has to stay with James.  He's not as terrifying as she built him up to be in her mind, but there is something unnerving about his gaze, like there's nothing behind his eyes.

He eats well enough and sleeps well enough, but Jane says he's not fit to exercise yet and he barely talks, so Darcy spends most of her time by his bedside chattering to fill the silence.

She ends up telling him more about herself than she ever intended to, such as, “I only came across Jane by accident, you know.  I was running away from home, as hard as it might be to believe.  There was some pockmarked boy my father wanted me to marry – I don't remember why.  He had some quarrel with the boy's father, I think, and the marriage was supposed to settle it.  Come to think of it, he was probably in debt.

“Well, anyway, I wasn't about to marry that silly little idiot so for some reason I decided to abscond to the forest.  I was lucky to find Jane, although of course she took little notice of me.  She was gathering herbs at the time, if I remember correctly.  She didn't tell me to go away so I followed her home and she disappeared into her tower, as she always does, and I fell asleep in the kitchen.  I cleaned everything in sight when I woke up and left breakfast outside her door.  She didn't eat a thing, but that's only because she hadn't left the workroom.  She didn't leave her workroom for days, actually.  She only really acknowledged me when I started bringing the food directly to her, and even then it took her another week to come out and notice that I'd tidied the place up a bit.  And I am quite a good cook so by the time she realized I was actually living with her, she was already attached to my food and it was too late to get rid of me.  I must admit, I slightly engineered the situation to turn out as such.  Anything to keep away from that horrible boy.”

Of course, at the end of her tale, he hands his plate back to her and lies down in bed and pulls the blankets up over his head.  It's an effort not to interpret his dismissal as intentionally rude, but Darcy tries to be understanding in everything she does, even if she doesn't always succeed, and reminds herself constantly that James is not well and should be cared for rather than reacted to.  The fact that he never responds is somewhat comforting in its own way.  At least she'll never have to worry about him spilling her secrets to Thor or Jane.  (So what if her “secrets” aren't all that secretive.  Everyone deserves a confidante.)

It's a near thing but she stops herself from patting his leg before she leaves his bedside.  Thor collides with her in the hallway.  He catches the empty plate when she drops it and Darcy begins to smile when he shoves the plate back into her arms and leans down to meet her eye.  His eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes.

Darcy's smile stutters and falls.  “What?  What is it?”

Thor's eyes flicker from her face to the open door to James's room.  She reaches behind her and pulls the door shut.  “Thor, what is it?”

“There's someone here.”

It takes her a moment to register.  “What – you mean – here?  As in, at our door?”

“Not at the door, no, but nearing it.  I saw them from the window in Jane's workshop.”

“Does Jane know?”

Thor raises his eyebrows at her.  “I told her.  I'm not quite sure she heard me.”

Darcy huffs.  “I hate when she's like that.  Well.  Whoever they are, they're only people.”  She pats Thor's enormous arm and winks at him.  “Don't worry, darling, I'll protect you.”  Thor's eyes twitch like he wants to roll them.  She sweeps past him down the hall and up into Jane's tower.  Jane ignores her and she ignores Jane right back and strides past the worktable to the window.

“I don't see them,” she says to Thor, who's followed her.

He reaches around her to point.  “There, to the west.”

Darcy allows herself a moment to appreciate the bulge of his muscle before turning her gaze back out the window.  Sure enough, there are three figures just emerging from the line of trees.  Darcy frowns.

“What are we looking at?” says Jane, coming up behind them.

“Oh, now you pay attention,” Darcy mutters.

“Three strangers approaching the castle,” says Thor.

Jane harrumphs.  “Just what we need.  More strangers.”  She leans past Darcy to squint at the figures.  “There's no doubt they intend to knock at our door,” she murmurs.  “Damn.”  She leans back.  “Well.  If we're to entertain guests tonight, I propose we keep the presence of our talkative friend a secret.”

Darcy and Thor turn to look at her.  Jane raises an eyebrow.

“What?  You don’t think it a bit coincidental they show up just a few days after James does?  We don't know who or what he was running from.  I'd rather keep him secret and safe than exposed and vulnerable.  Besides, it's not like it'll be very hard to keep him hidden when he doesn't leave his room.”  Jane casts another glance out the window before turning back to her worktable.  “Call me when supper's ready, will you?  I think I might actually dine at the table, tonight.”

Darcy and Thor shared a look of complete incredulity before shrugging in tandem and marching obediently out of the room to get supper started.  


	6. Chapter 6

The strangers reach the castle just in time for supper.  Darcy greets them at the door.

“We saw you coming a mile off,” she explains, stepping aside to let them pass.  They don't walk into the front hall.  They just stand there.

The fair man, built with a physique to rival Thor's, squints at her like she's a mirage and he plans to catch her in the act of being intangible.

The dark skinned man, almost if not equally as fit as his companion, smiles at her benignly.

The woman twists her red lips to the side before bowing her red head and walking into the castle.  That leaves Darcy to raise her eyebrows at the blond before he stammers a thank you and follows the woman inside.  The other man pauses at the doorway only to give her the tiniest of bows before following his companions.

“You must be hungry,” says Darcy, tugging the enormous door closed behind them.  “Which is just as well, for supper's ready.”

“There's no need to – ”

“You're very kind,” the redheaded woman intervenes, subtly digging an elbow into her blond companion's side.  “We've been traveling a long way.”

“Of course,” says Darcy, plastering a bright smile on her face.  “It gets so lonely around here, we're only too happy to have guests.  Come, come, I’ve prepared rooms for you upstairs – there’s soap and warm water if you’d like to wash up – no time for a bath, I’m afraid, supper’s hot and waiting, but I’m sure we can arrange something afterwards.”  She leads them to their rooms and stands at the end of the hallway that leads to James’ room to dissuade any… curiosity.

They emerge faster than she expected and seem surprised to see her waiting there.  “It’s very easy to get lost in here,” she says by way of explanation, gesturing for them to follow her downstairs.

“Again, we must thank you for your hospitality,” the red-haired woman says.  “It will be a relief to sleep on a real bed after traveling so long.”

“Do you live here alone?” the fair man asks, frowning at his surroundings.  The woman shoots him a sharp look.  The other man merely quirks a smile.

“No,” Darcy replies, throwing open the doors to the dining room.  “You’ll meet the hostess momentarily, I’ll let her make her own introductions.  I’m Darcy, by the way.”  She waves an arm towards the dining room table.  Thor has set the table magnificently, the roast he and Darcy prepared placed neatly in the middle of the table, garlanded with herbs and vegetables and circled by a ring of potatoes and carrots.  “Please, sit.”

The strangers waste no time in seating themselves at the table, practically visibly salivating at the sight of the food.  Good.  Darcy can’t wait to see how they react to dessert.  She slides a basket of warm bread to them, says, “Help yourself.  I’ll be just a moment,” and slips into the kitchen under the guise of fetching more food.

Jane is already in the kitchen with Thor, who is hiding from the strangers.  “What are they like?” she asks Darcy, peeling her leather work apron off.  The dress she wears underneath is a little worse for the wear, Darcy thinks, but its patches and faded color contribute to the air Jane will try to let off at dinner.

Watching Jane play the part of a cold, terrifying enchantress is always fun.  She has a gift for masking her endless curiosity and love of the world around her when it comes to having to scare strangers off.  Her interrogation of Thor the first morning he was at the castle was Darcy’s favorite.

“Strange,” Darcy answers.  “The woman is… well, I get the sense that the blonde man thinks himself the leader while she _knows_ herself to be their leader, if you understand my meaning?  And the other man - he seems pleasant enough!  But they’re secretive.”

“Which is understandable,” Jane replies, futilely attempting to tame hair she hasn’t brushed in weeks.  She looks more threatening with it wild anyway.  “We’re as mistrustful as them as they are of us.  Have they said anything about why they’re here?”

“Only that they’re tired and thankful,” Darcy says.

“Hmm.”  Jane gives her dress a once over and looks up at Thor.  “Well?”

He blinks.  “Oh!  Well - you - I - ”  He clears his throat and looks ready to try again.  Jane gives up on him and turns to Darcy.

“As fearsome as you’ll ever get.  Come on,” she replies, and pushes Jane towards the door.  She shoots a look at Thor, who merely shrugs helplessly, before she follows Jane into the dining room.

 

 

 

Sam doesn’t know what to make of the events of the last several days.  His new travelling companions, while as welcoming as they could be under the circumstances, are remarkably tight-lipped about their journey.  He gets the sense that they’re looking for something that they don’t know how to find.

It’s a shame, because Sam’s an excellent tracker.  If he knew what (or who) they were looking for, the likelihood is he could speed the process up.  But he understands their lack of trust.  There’s quite a bit he hasn’t shared with them either.

The doors to the dining room creak open once again, and a slight woman with pale brown hair slides into the room.  She’s not… enchanting, per se, but there’s a captivating intensity to her enormous eyes.  Darcy, the - housekeeper? maidservant? - follows her and pulls a chair out at the head of the table.  The hostess slides into it with ease.  Sam spies a tension in her neck.  Anger?  Nervousness?

“Welcome,” she says.  “I am the mistress of this castle.  My name is Jane.  And you are?”

Sam is surprised when Natasha gives her real name.  Steve follows her example and Sam feels compelled to do the same.  The three of them take care to omit their surnames, however.

“I trust Darcy has made you all comfortable?” Jane asks.

“Yes, thank you,” Natasha replies, her smile as sunny as Sam’s ever seen it.

“How wonderful.”  Jane nods to Darcy, who leaves the room, and Jane picks up her fork and begins to eat.

As if on cue, the Sam, Natasha, and Steve fall to their own meals as graciously as they can while fighting their ravenous hunger.  Jane watches them all with a tight smile, chewing her own food much more delicately.

She lets them eat for a few moments before she asks, “If I may... what exactly are the three of you doing this deep in the forest?”  Her tone is polite, but the three of them know where the conversation is likely to go.

Steve clears his throat and darts a look at Natasha.  “If _I_ may,” he says slowly, toying with the stem of his goblet, “what is a citizen of Midgard doing living in an abandoned sorcerer’s castle, so close to Asgardian borders?”

Had he blinked, Sam would have missed the slightest smile that flitted across Jane’s face.  “Is this the former home of a sorcerer?  Heavens, I had no idea,” she replies flatly.

Steve meets her eyes and speaks slowly.  “Madam.  I am very gracious for your hospitality.  Please, believe that I am.  But I think you know we both have details we’d rather not share.  I would hate to impose on your privacy as we have already imposed on your hospitality.  As such, I vow not to pry more than I already have, if you can promise me the same.  Please understand my secrecy will bring no harm to you, as I am sure yours will bring no harm to us.  If you find these conditions unacceptable, we will not impose on your hospitality any further and we will carry no grudge.

Jane seems taken aback by his earnestness.  Before she can reply, Sam speaks up.

“I have a confession to make,” he says lightly.  Steve and Natasha turn to him, brows furrowed.  “An offering of honesty, if you will.”  His eyes lock on Jane’s.  “While I have no knowledge of my companions’ intentions in the woods, I can speak for my own.  I’m sure you’ve heard of a notorious bandit roaming the forest called the Falcon?  One of the kingdom’s most wanted?  The man with a price of one thousand gold on his head?”

“Yes,” Jane replies slowly.

“Good,” Sam replies, smiling.  “I was worried you might not have news of him this deep in the forest.  I am he.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jane breathes.

“Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

Natasha’s mouth, while not gaping, is parted in surprise.  It’s the most open he’s ever seen her face.  Steve opens and closes his mouth silently for a moment before he erupts.

“ _You’re_ the Falcon?  The famous outlaw?  My new companion, Sam, the famous outlaw!”

“I think the word is infamous,” Sam sneaks in before Steve’s laughter cuts him off.

“I can’t believe - all this time - do you know how many years I spent hearing about the menace you are to our kingdom?  To the hardworking men whose money you stole and spent on gods-know-what?  A loyal citizen I’ve been to our king these many years and here I find I’ve been breaking bread with an outlaw - and now, likely a second!” he adds, his eyes alighting on Jane.

Jane’s eyes are darting back and forth between the three strangers.  “I - ”

Steve’s laughter dies down and he catches his breath.  “My apologies, madam,” he wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye, “it’s been a long, hard few weeks.”

Natasha regains her composure.  “What on _earth_ has gotten into you?” she asks Steve.

He simply shakes his head.  “Ah, Natasha.  What a whirlwind my life has been since you came into it.”

Jane blinks.  “Well,” she says finally.  “I think it’s safe to say I’ll be letting you stay a few more nights.”  And then, hating herself, she adds, “As long as you need, in fact.”  Damn Darcy’s generous influence.

She turns to Sam.  “I thank you for your honesty.”  Sam smiles at her.

To Steve, she says, “And thank you for compromising your loyalty to the king to keep my secret.”  Steve takes a deep breath and nods.

To Natasha, Jane says nothing.  She’s sure the woman already knows, anyway.

 

 

 

Darcy finds Jane in the tower once she’s settled their new guests in their rooms.  Jane refuses to meet her eyes.  Darcy bites back a smile and folds her arms.

“Three new houseguests,” she says, circling the room.  She reaches out to fiddle with a contraption on one of the worktables and Jane smacks her hand away.  “And I thought you _loved_ your solitude?”

“Oh, damn you,” Jane mutters.

Darcy laughs.  “Admit it.  It feels _wonderful_ having more people in the castle, doesn’t it!”

“Quite!” says Jane, whirling around to face her. “In fact, I _adore_ having to keep not only my _own_ secret, but Thor’s, and James’!  It’s thrilling to have to keep up with all the counterfeit!”

Darcy clucks her tongue.  “Please, you never leave your tower.  As if they’ll ever have a chance to talk to you anyway.”

“Leave me be, you devil,” Jane says, but Darcy can see the smile she’s fighting back.  “Your damned generosity has infected me.”

“My mother always taught me to honor graciousness and hospitality.”

“It’s not even your house!”

“I’m hurt you would even say that!  Heaven knows I’ve been living here nearly as long as you have.”

“I was here first!”

“ _Very_ mature.”  Darcy ducks the wadded up apron Jane throws at her and slips out of the room laughing.


End file.
